


Pivotal

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Luna Lovegood, Department of Mysteries, Fluff and Angst, Incredible irony, Interior Architecture, Kneazles, Lust, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Pensieves, Romance, Snark, Stonehenge - Freeform, Tongue-in-cheek, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, Unspeakable Harry Potter, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, dominos, happy endings, suppressed memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 00:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14508573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Unspeakables use the Pensieve Protocol often, routinely. But Draco Malfoy may be using it a little more than is advisable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazyparakiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/gifts).



My name’s Draco Malfoy. I’m an Unspeakable, which is ironic, as here I am, speaking to _you_. Well...not ‘speaking’, exactly. And not to ‘you’, either, unless I am referring to Potter, which of course I am, Potter, so pay attention. And it’s more like ‘recording’, which is something we Unspeakables do periodically as a matter of protocol. You see, our job requires knowing quite a lot of information, some of it important and some of it trivial, and it’s difficult, knowing quite so much about quite so much, you understand? Now and then we need to, ah, shall we say, _clear the cogs,_ if you know what I mean? So, as per usual, I’ll be handing this over to Potter for his Ponder and that’ll be it for another month or so. Of course, he’ll be handing me his, in turn, so I’ll be stuck with the Pottery version of things, but I am accustomed, so not exactly fashed, right? No, sorry, Potter. I really do enjoy it, your view of the _anima mundi_ ; I’m not lying.

Just to make it clear, Potter is my partner. We’ve both been Unspeakables for a few years now. Severus Snape is our department head at DOM, which is not at all surprising when one Ponders it, and we mostly work with our fellow younger, more _au courant_ Unspeakables: Granger, Lovegood, Parkinson and Patil, specifically, plus a few of the others, who’ve been Unspeakables for positively centuries now and maybe should really, _really_ consider retiring. Yes, Potter, that is the truth and you know it. Not mentioning names in particular, but if that one decrepit old stick confronts me in the cafe one more time and nitpicks my style, my antecedents, my allegiance or my [relatively] innocent relationship with Our Saviour (that being you, Potter), I shall, as Mr Weasley says, blow a fucking Muggle gasket. Well, no, _he_ doesn’t say _fucking_ , but he implies it, Potter. Strongly. Do stop interrupting me. I’m feeling queasy, what with all the mumbling and eyebrow waggling.

To go on. If you were curious as to how it all came about, especially after the events of the Voldemort War and those ghastly years at Hogwarts and the Manor before that, my somewhat sullied reputation, Potter’s Good Deeds and ultimately golden reputation, etc., etc., then I’d merely say it’s probably due to Snape and Potter and Minister Shacklebolt twisting quite a few arms in the Wizengamot. Or beards. Or lace kerchiefs. Although Potter is stubborn as fuck and flat-out _refuses_ to admit what he said to Shacklebolt and the Headmistress specifically, but whatevers.  Long story short: all the Hogwarts students in our year and previous were pardoned of all crimes and were unanimously told they’d have jobs at the Ministry awaiting them, back in ‘99. Training on the job and whatsit, which was helpful in the extreme as NEWTS were a bit of stumbling block, at least for some of us. Yes, yes, Potter, I know. We all have them, House and Blood prejudice has been effectively surmounted, blah, blah, blah, what Hermione says, but it was well after the fact, so stop mumbling. I don’t know that _I’m_ necessarily proud of that period in my life.

Right, to continue. The Ministry trotted out it’s Sorting Hat--and who knew they even had one, right? Except us, apparently, because we’re Unspeakables, but that’s all ancient history. Really, a lot of it is. Binns has nothing on Madame Spice when it comes to wielding a ten tonne tome and assigning endless parchment on everything from Goblin Wars to what that fucker Grindelwald wrought back in his day. But I digress. Everyone got sorted into their various departments, it was all very First Years-y, tra-lah-lah, and, bob’s your uncle, or possibly second cousin, we few (very!) were sent straight into Unspeakable training. Which is no bloody picnic nor walk in the bloody park, ta very much. Unspeakables are the _ne plus ultra w_ hen it comes to Ministry personnel, second only to the Minister. Now, as soon as I knew that about them, I naturally wanted to become one, because, ho, _Slytherin_ , yes? We, being Unspeakables, simply  have to know everything--and that truly does mean Everything, so we are trained in _all_ the Departments, from Aurors to Games to Archives to Misuse--well, you get the idea. And while Granger was completely unsurprising as a Sortee into DOM, Potter rather _was_ , at first.

To me, at least. I’d’ve wagered on Potter for Aurors, no question, but there you have it.

Upon reflection, though, I decided that Potter was just as valid a choice for an Unspeakable position as I myself was. Potter, you see, has hidden depths. Yes, you do. You’re a very curious person, Potter, and I mean that in every possible way. Including the complimentary way, so again, please don’t pout at me, as this is just as required. Boring as fuck, but required. One day these Pensieves will be useful to train future Unspeakables and I’m just trying to do my small part in furthering the cause of education. Background knowledge is key. No one ever wrote down that one common base in 9th C potions lore and now we can’t recreate it because no one. Ever. Wrote. It. Down.

Yes, right, here we are then; to business. We’ve conducted a number of Ponders this last month. Two of them had to do with open Auror cases, which have been since closed and Archived, and another few to do with a mishap in the Games department, when Zabini literally dropped a Quaffle in a most embarrassing way internationally and we Unspeakables had to save his damned arse from the fury of a foreign Ministry. But the most notably inscrutable was this one, the highlights below:

 

 

 

> “These items,” Snape said, gestured at the table, which obligingly produced a number of ‘items’, “are the subject of your next official department Ponder. I shall expect you both to seek connexions, pursue tangents and report back to me, both singly and as a team, the conclusions--if any--at which you arrive. A week should be sufficient.”
> 
> Without further adieu he retreated, leaving Draco and Potter to first stare at the table and then at each other.
> 
> “A week?” Potter burst out, yanking out a nearby chair and slamming his arse into it. He huffed, blowing out his cheeks and sending a wayward hank of hair flying aloft. “A fucking week? Is he even serious?”
> 
>  

Please note that we generally use the Pondering Room when at DOM and that Snape himself is often the instigator--oh, sorry! I meant to say ‘requestor’--of Certain Enquiries. It’s got a long oval table and a whole slew of uncomfortable chairs and it’s dead quiet in there. Excepting for when Potter’s present, of course.

  

 

> Draco rolled his eyeballs and chose a chair across for Potter. He seated himself decorously, choosing a random item from the assortment nearest him and subjecting it to a cursory scrutiny.
> 
> “Hmm, a Rubik’s,” he said after a longish pause, during which Potter grumbled no more, at least not loudly, and Draco pointedly did not mention that Severus Snape was generally 99% serious, 99% of the time. “Muggle in origin, some Magical enhancement, mostly dissipated. Likely a joke gift to some young Witch or Wizard--ten years ago, maybe? And look, here’s a deck of Muggle playing cards, right next to it. Tattered, strongly aromatic of Muggle whisky. How interesting. There are poker-playing dogs on; quaint. See their little cravats? How darling--how demeaning. What tales these do tell of the shallowness of humanity, am I right? Gambling and all that rot, the evils of that foul Muggle whisky. Waste of time, if you ask _me_. Not that you would, of course.”
> 
> A longish pause erupted, during which Potter stayed stubbornly silent and unmoving, stared down his cuppa and...and, well, Draco regarded Potter. Until, naturally, he was fed up with it and forced to chide the petulant bastard. “You know we don’t have all day here,” he pointed out, careful to keep his tone very bland and not at all acrimonious.
> 
> “Best to be getting on with it.” Oozing an air of righteous assiduousness, Draco picked up another object from his side of the long table. “I do believe,” he went on, “that this is a stray piece of Meccano, Potter. Charmed, I’m sure. You know, oddly enough my father had a set when he was small, given by some well-meaning great auntie, I’m sure, which _I_ was then given to play with as a tot--”
> 
> “Fine, fine,” Potter sighed and reached out to grab what was closest to him. “Getting on with it, alright? And here we have..ah. A thimble, most definitely Magical. Sterling, with a SureSew Spell imbued and still active, probably late 19th century.”  He set that down quickly and took up a book: smallish, with a red leather cover. “And here is a….oh! It’s an old journal, by the looks of it. Yes--owned by a Witch named Primula B. G.”
> 
> “Oh, oh? Primula, you say?” Draco started a bit and glanced at Potter. “Primula _B_ , Potter? You are aware that’s a favourite family name amongst the Twenty-Eight, yes? For both the Black clan _and_ the Potters, as it happens. She might very well be your relative, in a roundabout way. But really more likely mine, in all actuality, as it’s ‘B’. Though it could also be ‘B’ for Bagshot or some such. Is there a date to that diary, Potter? Perhaps also from the 1920’s or 30’s?”
> 
> He stopped short, holding up a hand to prevent Potter from even thinking of replying, clearly struck by a thought.
> 
> “Hmmm, no. That can’t really be, can it?” he mused aloud. “It must be earlier, quite a bit earlier...before the turn of the century, perhaps. I don’t recall any Potters on the Ministry Tapestry, at least not from this last century; that is, not connected to Blacks, at least officially. Though I can't recall any recent female relative on the Black side named Primula, either. Not off-hand. I just seem to know that there have been some, and in both families. But your lot was abroad for a longish time and you know how the Tapestry Magic is spotty when it comes to the foreign bloodline extensions. Very squeamish, that bloody old rag.”
> 
> “Right, well.” Potter shrugged, as if to say a speculative connection between Potter and Black was unimportant. Which was both unlike Potter and quite untrue. Pursing his lips, Draco let it pass, eager more to move on than to debate the Pottery presence or non-presence in Britain during the early years of the previous century. “As to the date,” Potter continued, turning the book this way and that, peering carefully. “Er, um...let me see.”
> 
> “Yes, do,” Draco encouraged, intrigued despite Potter’s own obvious non-interest. “And then perhaps tell me it, so we can see if there’s any chronological connection to this more Mugglish lot over here.” Potter flipped carefully through the pages, peering at the closely written copperplate, and eventually shook his head in the negative.
> 
> “No, no, there isn’t a thing. Not a year, nor even a month. Days of the week, yes, but no actual dates. Odd. And why ‘Primula', though? I can understand the Blacks using it--flower name, right?--but why would _my_ family? 'Petunia', 'Lily'...all common. And not...not a Magical family, the Evans. It’s sort of strange, that. I don’t know why you would think it.”
> 
> “Alliteration,” Draco replied promptly. “P-P-Potter." He quirked a brow. "There’s power to it, as you know. Just as there is power to naming one’s child after a constellation, say, a god of yore, or even a simple botanical specimen. Spice covered it very early on in training, but you missed that one session, did you not? Never did tell me why." He paused expectantly, but Potter only gave him a bland Look. "Well, in any event, we’ll have to read it over, then--but later.” Draco sighed, flapping a hand at the scattering still on the table. “Let’s crack on, shall we? What else have you got there?”
> 
> “Oh, I've’ a--a--what’s it?” Head bent closely over the table's surface, Potter regarded a vaguely nebulous object doubtfully, poking at it with a curious fingertip and frowning. "Um..." he trailed off. "Weird."
> 
> “Right, when you’re ready. ” Draco nodded affably enough, when the moment of Potter's further revelation had died a quiet death. “Continuing. Now, on mine I’ve a hand-drawn cartoon, lampooning some poor posh sod, from the looks of it, also Muggle, likely 1930’s.” Draco picked it up gingerly by its somewhat battered edges and eyed it, noting a walrus dressed in a top hat and spats and some luxuriantly mustachio’d bobbies brandishing batons at a raggedy crowd obstructing the well turned-out walruses’ progress. “Political in nature,” Draco, not really paying heed to his frowning partner, meandered right into his list. “As they so often are. Labour versus anyone who’d fight them, likely. Or maybe the other way 'round; never did have a head for Muggle politics, sorry. Boring.”
> 
> “Hey,” Potter inserted, mumbling as he absentmindedly laid  down the journal and picked up the object he’d been poking. “Wait? Mine’s a bit—a bit. It’s not quite a bad example, but, if you would just--I could. Er...do you want to just come look?”
> 
> “Let me just be done, do, Potter,” Draco replied, kindly, shaking his head. “May as well, right? And then we’ll do you again, I promise. Right, and this, this is...Hmm.” He eyed a lumpy glob of something.  “Yes. Here’s a...dried up lump of...clay, is it? Looks like clay, at least. Grey, porous, smells of riverbank and rotting veg. I’ll test it in the lab, later; make certain. No idea why this is included. Snape is peculiar. This is all peculiar and not particularly interesting in any way. I’m quite bored to tears, here, Potter. Also getting thirsty. Give me your tea?”
> 
> “Because Snape moves in mysterious ways, of course,” Potter grinned, subsiding back into his seat. “Of all people, Malfoy, you should know that. And no, I won't; I need it to prop my eyelids open, even though it's gone stone cold. Hey, are you done yet? Or anywhere near?”
> 
> “No!"  Draco snapped, slightly miffed about the tea but understanding of Potter's need. "Shut it, let me finish up my side. This thing, this clay thing? No inscription, no markings, not a Rune stone, not a Gobstone, not much of anything, really, so definitely suspicious. No Magical residue, not a trace. Knowing Snape, it's probably --”
> 
> “It’s probably nothing at all, Malfoy, and he only slung it in to confuse us.” Potter quirked his brows quizzically. “Be just like him, really. He’s subtle like that.”
> 
> “Be that as it may, I’ll still be forced to test further." Draco sighed. "Right, then.”
> 
> Draco set the anonymous but faintly foreboding dried-out bit of clay down and glanced across the table. Potter was still smiling faintly, for reasons known only to Potter. Carefully, he flashed a brief smile of his own in return, which only caused Potter’s face to crinkle further and his eyes to appear especially merry.
> 
> “Something funny? No? Well, what’s keeping you from telling me yours, then?” Draco prodded, watching suspiciously as Potter twiddled his fingertips on the table. “What else have you, over there? That thing to your right, to start? Is that...is that--what even _is_ that? You’ve been side-eying it for ages now.”
> 
> “Hmph!” Potter snorted, still smiling. “Well, now, as you’re finally giving me leave to even _say_ , Malfoy, I’ll be happy to share. To start, we have, ta-dah, this!”
> 
> “ _This_?”
> 
> Potter pointed flippantly. “May I present you an...allergen? A whole heap of them, actually.”
> 
> "Bloody _cat_ hair?" 
> 
> Chuckling at Draco’s instant flush and wrinkled nose, Potter scooped up what looked remarkably like a mound of shed Kneazle fur across the polished surface of the table, making a small lofting pile.
> 
> The chuckle morphed into a muffled snort and a puffing huff when a pesky wad of fur flew askew and floated nearly up his nose, all of which action Draco found to be oddly engaging. He chuckled as well. “Oh, good one, Potty.”
> 
> “Oh, hey,” Potter twinkled. “Made you laugh, didn’t I? _I_ don't mind.”
> 
> “Shut it, Potter.” For a long moment they both sat, smiling at each other like utter idiots for no good reason. "Ah, a-hem! Pardon!"
> 
> Until Draco coughed suddenly, looking away and making a business of resettling his arse in his seat.
> 
>  

I did, as I recall, actually have to hide a really silly grin at this point in the programme. As to that tiny little slip I made, just now? The ‘oddly engaging’ bit that I know you’re absolutely going to obsess over, Potter? And remind me of every time you have the slightest opening? Sad to admit, oh Pottery-Pot, Silly Old Spot, you _are_ sometimes ‘oddly engaging’. Engaging, amusing and generally _some_ fun. Being the superior Unspeakable that I am, I’ve no issue with letting that slip, though. It is a known fact that you exude what they commonly call ‘charisma’.

Why, _hullo_ there, Granger. What’re you doing here in my Pensieve, snooping about? Do _I_ do this to you, then? Dig about in your Cumulative Unstated Monthly reports without asking? No, Granger, _I_ do not. I leave that to Lovegood, Merlin help her. Go away, please; we’re just going along aces without you.

Besides, I am afraid this might get a bit personal.

But whatevers. You ex-Gryffindors are a very suspicious lot. Worse than I ever was, surely.

Right, carrying on with this particular Ponder, as Merlin knows, it may very well be of use, someday. Maybe.

 

 

> “Ginger cat hair,” he--that’s _you_ , Potter--announced, pushing the shifty mound away again just as quickly as he’d gathered it up. “But Kneazle, not regular moggy. I should know; I’m mildly allergic to Muggle cats but not at all to Kneazles, nor even half-Kneazles. Fortunately, because Hermione, you see.”
> 
> He shrugged at Draco’s gratuitously rolled eyes and obligatory sneer. Granger’s adoration of Kneazles was a known thing. Snape’s adoration his Kneazle was a _new_ thing, certainly, but not all that surprising.
> 
> “Sorry, but it is what it is. You have to stop being so touchy about her, Malfoy; you’re just as bad as she is and you know it. You’re only ticked off because she’s in charge of this month’s Pensieve Rotation review. Anyway, this is Kneazle fur, and I expect from a young one, still extant. It’s glossy still, see? So it’s recent and may not even belong in this Ponder, if we’re to go by even the very broad collection era we’ve sort of established.”
> 
> “Wonderful,” Draco nodded, totally deadpan. “Just what was needed. Strays.”
> 
> “Although?” Potter shrugged and rolled his eyes, although not at Draco in particular. “With Snape-ity-Snape-Snape, who knows, yeah? This could just as easily be mummified Kneazle fur under influence of a Focussed Revivify. But I think it’s far more likely Snape’s precious pet has been allowed in here recently. Though I must say I’m perplexed  there’s not more stuff on the carpet. We should check, you know.”
> 
> “Ah,” Draco said, glancing about to make sure they’d not missed any of the items Snape had set to them to Ponder. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s left the creature it came from still in here. Snape’s surprisingly fond of his Percival Leopold Sweetums. Little devil’s allowed to go everywhere and anywhere he pleases. Without so much as a by your leave.”
> 
> No cat, nor Kneazle, however, was evident, despite both the Unspeakables present actively leaving their seats and searching. Well, not searching precisely, but more having a bit of a leg-stretch, at least in Draco’s case. _Tea_ , he thought. _Tea would be nice_.
> 
> “I could,” Draco mentioned, mid-search, “murder another cuppa, right about now. Perhaps a break might be in order, Potter? As we’re already up and about.” 
> 
> “...Um,” Potter mumbled, unhelpfully, having gone down on his hands and knees to peer under the table in search of the felonious feline.  With an internal groan, Draco torn his eyes from Potter’s arse and returned them to the table’s contents, feeling only mildly thwarted. “Meh, nah-uh,” he added, in a muffled voice. “Nah-yet.”
> 
> “Right, then.” Draco raised a curious brow at Potter’s antics; the fool had evidently crawled to the other side of the table and was making a bee-line for the rows of cabinets. He could only imagine the intent gleam in those bottle-glass eyes. “Maybe later.”
> 
> The collection strongly reminded Draco of the strictly limited ‘official’ training Ponders Madame S had set her lot of ‘baby’ Unspeakables to in the early days of their coursework, whilst they were all still treated as all ‘round Ministry Trainees: common, confusing and drab; ill-assorted, mundane and a bit boring, at least on the surface.
> 
> But still, there’d always been some deeper connection, some tenuous trail that would lead to a resolution. Sometimes many resolutions and not all of them immediate. Perhaps not a clear-cut answer, but always a resolution. Not surprisingly at all, that had proved a boon to the budding Aurors in the group. Weasley and Granger had wallowed in it, practically, and even a few Slytherin renegades like Theo had been heard to mutter that Unspeakables were really just failed Aurors. Of course, he and Blaise both had much rather preferred Games and Pansy had been faffingabout for ages about transferring over to St Mungo’s for a Healer’s Apprenticeship. Still...
> 
> Madame had been quick to point out that they were wrong, _very wrong_ , about that idea.
> 
> ‘Unspeakables,” she’d snapped emphatically, her gnarled wand very much in evidence, “are the backbone of the Ministry. Kindly keep in mind always that there is no heart without a head and no action without motive. An Unspeakable’s job is to know the whys of a matter, for ultimately it is the whys that determine the wherefores!”
> 
> That, Draco was convinced, was the very best aspect of becoming an Unspeakable: the closure, the seeing of what others could not see, the ineffable feeling of knowing those whys, all of them, even if the knowledge itself proved to be trivial. Or apparently trivial.
> 
> And he’d been aware, even then, that he’d been nursing a sneaking suspicion that Potter shared his enthusiasm for both the hunt-and-chase _and_ the prize at the end of a decent Ponder for quite some time. And Ponders were by nature deceptive. Rather like Potter.
> 
> “Well, this is a--” he said, jerking himself abruptly back in focus and seeking words that might provide a framework for the current puzzle set before them. Potter meanwhile sprang up and brushed off the lint that had clung to his trouser legs. “A domestic, that’s what. It’s all very domes--Merlin, what I need is _tea_. This is not so much a Ponder, Potter, as unmitigated torture and only tea will make it better. You must agree with me, don’t you?”
> 
> “Well..al--Oh wait! One more, hang on,” Potter interrupted, departing the cabinets and abruptly bustling to bend over the table once more. “Here--right here,” he said, using deft fingers to sweep aside the pervasive miasma of gingery fur. “I saw them earlier but nearly lost them to the Kneazle hair, sorry. It’s dominoes. Magical. Old ones; some of the dots are worn quite off and the Runes are polished smooth from use. Funny thing is, they’re arranged in an order, I think. Artfully-- _on purpose_. Like--like a structure.”
> 
> “On purpose?” Draco frowned and drew closer. “What structure, Potter?”
> 
> “I think so.” Potter gestured vaguely, waving his hand over the surface of the table. “I mean, just look at them, Draco; don't they remind you of something? Some _place_ , rather? It’s Stonehenge, that’s what! Come round and have a look from over this side, will you? It’s all in the angle of view.”
> 
> “Yes, alright, hold your Thestrals,” Draco said, tilting his head inquisitively and slipping round to stand next to Potter. He bent his head down, just as Potter was doing, and peered sideways and squinting at the apparently haphazard heap of ebony rectangles along a much lower sight line. It revealed a visual effect of making the scattered oblongs appear much larger, and made it as though the table itself was a horizon line.
> 
> As if, in fact, the dominos were massive slabs, rendered in miniature. “Oh!” he exclaimed, suddenly just as excited as Potter was. “Oh, yes, I _do_ see. Stonehenge, definitely. Weird, what? With Beltane coming up and all.”
> 
> “Yes! Isn't that weird, Draco? I love it when it’s weird!” Potter grinned hugely. “Best part of a Ponder is when it’s weird, right? Good old Snape, he never lets us down!”
> 
> Draco reared stark upright and staggered back, staring wide-eyed at Potter. He was only partly teasing, some of the surprise was very real.
> 
> “Wait, what? Pardon me, but what did you just say? ‘Us’, as in ‘you and me’ us, the camaraderie sort of ‘us’, Potter, and now you’re expressing  jollity over what Snape’s done to this Ponder? You're acting as if Snape’s our best mate best mate now? I must ask--are you feeling quite well? Because that’s highly unlikely. Highly!”
> 
> “Well, um,” Potter mumbled, reddening and suddenly developing shifty eyes, “I’m just saying, that’s all. As a possibility. I mean, you know he likes to surprise people, Malfoy, and not all of those are meant to be unpleasant. And I have known him to make a joke, now and again. Usually at my expense, yes, but not always.”
> 
> “What in the merry Ethos is wrong with you, Potter?” Aghast, Draco scowled, thumping the flat of his hand down perilously close to the dominos. “Severus Snape clearly doesn't like you! Never has, never will! Why would he ever care about us in connexion to the Beltane Gala? Bloody absurd!”
> 
> “But!” Potter gasped. “There’s evidence that supports a quite different hypothesis, Malfoy! For instance—“
> 
> “For that matter,” Draco thundered on, “he barely tolerates _me_ and that’s only because Mum’s got a Witches’s Eye on him! Why would he _ever_ consider doing anything that might please _you_ , in particular? That’s bloody mad! Not to mention pretty bloody self-centered, old Pot. Snape’s all about results, and only results, my dear deluded colleague; he’d hardly care if we collectively keeled over from ennui providing it got the job done. I can’t as I see him making jokes in this matter.”
> 
> “Er,” Potter said, looking chagrined. “About that.”
> 
> “About what?” Draco glared, narrowed-eyed, lips pursing. “What, Potter?”
> 
> “Er, look, I'm sorry, but I always forget you didn't know. Though I suppose there’s no way you could've--they never told anyone but me about it and I was sworn to secrecy. Although, come to think of it, you did know, at one time, but then what with the Pensieve Protocol Program, you probably removed your memories of anything to do with it and--”
> 
> “Oh no you don’t Potter,” Draco said, waving an accusing forefinger at the offender. “Just stop right there--I don’t require any massive revelations this morning. No earth shattering outburst, no emotional archeology! We have one job to do, remember? Let’s just carry on and go find tea after. Shut up. Do. Just...please.”
> 
> “No, really, it’s like this, Draco,” Potter insisted. “You actually need to know this so we can do our job, Protocol be damned! Stonehenge is important--to us, Draco.”
> 
> “The fuck I do,” Draco replied. He crossed his arms over his chest and sneered roundly. “I already know more than I want to, Potter, and certainly more than I ever asked for, especially when it comes to you!”
> 
> “The fuck you _do_ , Draco! And I hate that I have to tell you this all over again every few months, but I do, and I must, and _you_ must, and I _am_!”
> 
> “Bah,” Draco growled, choosing a chair and thumping his arse into it with obvious reluctance. “This is completely against my better instincts, but. Completely against Protocol, too, buit, as you insist, Potty. Go on, then.”
> 
> “Right, okay, it’s like this,” Potter flailed his arms briefly, beginning to pace. “Spice and Snape divvied up the Unspeakable training, way back in the beginning. And _I_ sort of ended up being divided up between them, actually. Lecture-wise at least, while you and the others were with Spice most all the time. But I got Snape in droves, probably because he thought I was going to prove a liability to DOM, right from the start, and he likely talked the Minister in agreeing with him.”
> 
> “Like that’s never happened before,” Draco murmured, nodding intently, his face utterly blank. “ _You_ being treated as a special case by the authorities. No, never.”
> 
> “Shut up,” Potter said, flipping Draco a quick bird as he impatiently trotted back and forth on the carpet. “Anyway, my Legilmens and Occulmens were never all that good, really, and maybe it also had something to do with helping him save his own life and all that, but really it just meant I had more lessons. Double, maybe even triple the lessons, for the love of Merlin. Not that that was a bad thing, as it wasn’t; I mean, Hermione was insanely jealous--well, she was until Snape asked her to give him the Pensieve memory of that knowledge. So, in the end, no one knew about all of that but me and Snape. And, well, we weren’t exactly chums or anything like, but he at least was civil and sometimes even sort of…funny. In a good way, not mental!” he added quickly when Draco snorted derisively. “But, that’s why I say this, about the joking and about Snape. That, that, he’s _not_ a bad egg when it comes to being our boss--and that he’s far from hating _me_ , Malfoy.”
> 
> “Pshaw, Potter,” Draco scoffed, shaking his head at Potter’s hopeful look. “I recall differently--seven full years of ‘differently’. That sort of deep-seated resentment lingers, you know?  Of course, who am _I_ to protest the word of the great Harry Potter? If you say Snape’s your mate, then of course Snape’s your mate. I just think you may want to be checked over in the Infirmary, is all. We’re Unspeakables, you know, not Unreasonables.”
> 
> “Stop that.” Potter shook his head. “I’m not joking about here, Draco. Be serious.”
> 
> “Or Irrationals,” Draco chuckled darkly. “Wait--there’s another  joke for you, Potty, should you be seeking to lighten the atmosphere. I know I am. Much too dramatic, al the sudden.”
> 
> “Just, stop, will you? Stop acting like this is a totally unheard of concept, Draco,” Potter said firmly, ceasing his pacing and coming over to jab an admonitory finger at Draco’s elevated nose. “Regardless of how many times you’ve conveniently ‘forgotten’, you still retain a basic sense of our recent shared history! Don’t change the subject and don’t you dare try to distract me!”
> 
> “Our recent shared shagging, you mean. And it’s not convenience, it’s Protocol. With a capital ‘P’, P-P-Potter.”
> 
> Despite Draco’s very blatant yawn and pronounced shrug, Potter continued to jab the air not an nth from Draco’s flaring nostrils, going a little pink around the edges.
> 
> “No! _Of course_ Snape’s not my fan or anything like, but he’s a brilliant instructor when he’s not actively hating a bloke, you know? Which he’s not. No matter how much you’d like to use that to colour your perceptions, Draco.” He sent a look of impatience Malfoy’s way. “And our shagging’s not ‘recent’, so don’t say that it is.”
> 
> “Potter, I don’t—I mean, do we really have to go there, right now?”
> 
> “Of course you _do_ know; he’s always gotten on with _you_. But yes. He set me up with some brilliant Ponders, really good ones. Not to please me, per se, but to teach me, you see? Lessons. Not that Spice’s weren't interesting, because they were,” he went on earnestly, nodding happily as Draco slumped as far back into his seat as possible, eyes crossing slightly as he aimed to look defeated by Potter’s rhetoric. It was a struggle but Unspeakables were trained in artful dissimulation, so he managed. Mostly. It helped that he felt defeated by the pointlessness of Potter’s point.
> 
> “Potter, please, _please_ —I’m quite convinced, really I am. Can we we just crack on with it?” Draco cast an appealing look at his relentlessly energetic opponent. “We have work to do yet, remember?”
> 
> Potter, however, persevered.
> 
> “I mean, she was a decent instructor, definitely, but Snape shows some real verve when it comes to whipping up a solid Ponder. Must be why he's been made Head, yeah? Aptitude. Oh, and probably experience too, come to think.” 
> 
> “Oh, no, no, Potter.” With a quiet moan, Draco gave in to his primal urge, shoved Potter’s arm aside and simply laid his own fretful, achy head right down on the table. The surface was cool and therefore soothing. It muffled his next words somewhat but that hardly mattered. “Do cease and desist.  This is all very fascinating but I need tea to process it.”
> 
> “You don’t need tea, Malfoy,” Potter rebuked sternly, giving Draco a firm pat on the back. “You just need to remember. You need to remember a lot of things, really. And probably stop being so dramatic about resisting it--and _me_. I’m not giving up, you know.”
> 
> “I now you’re not. My head hurts, Potter,” Draco mumbled, mentally scoring Potter a point for being spot-on about the ‘dramatic’ but also not really caring all that much about the small victory. Sometimes he had to do ‘dramatic’ in order to counteract Potter’s own version of drama. Potter was dramatic in a very passive-aggressive way. “What with how you’re not giving up, alright? I am fatigued. Fagged out, even. And yes, I do need tea, as it happens. Tea is happiness, tea is peace, tea is you not talking in circles about the things I chose not to recall when you know that I really shouldn’t be recalling them a’tall and, further, _and_ most importantly, tea will allow me an excuse to go elsewhere and speak to others about things which don’t include your status, my misconceptions, our affairs or Severus’s treatment of his employees. Lastly, as you know, and as I have told you, it always pains me deeply when I am forced to recall that you are the Department’s ‘special case’, Potter. If you know all this other shit, then you know that as well.”
> 
> “Hey! It’s not as though I was ever doing it deliberately, Draco,” Potter protested, although he’d the grace to flush. In fact, had been flushing, from the moment Draco mentioned ‘affairs’. “I mean, you did know, once upon a time…maybe? At least I think you did. You just Pensieved it, the memory.”
> 
> “Lies,” Draco countered, raising his head unwillingly and glaring. “And falsehoods. You do this deliberately, like clockwork, whenever you’re ticked with me and you know it.”
> 
> “No, I don’t. As to that, Snape just...just informed me, I guess, on the very first day, right after we’d been Sorted,” Potter stated firmly. “It’s not as though I had a choice in the matter. Just as he informed me you’d only agreed to become an Unspeakable if I agreed to let you use the Pensieve Protocol for your personal shit--”
> 
> “Yes, alright,” Draco agreed quickly. He stood up, feeling it was high time he paced the room and returned the favour by making  Potter uncomfortable with his own bustling.  “Let’s skip ahead now, shall we?” He waved his arms about, making shooing motions. “Tickety-boo, here we go: we have dominos which look like Stonehenge, we have a questionable diary, there’s some Kneazle fur fucking up our nasal cavities and a motley of other miscellaneous Mugglery. Ultimately, I require tea. Question is, are we supposed to get anything pertinent from this mélange? Does Snape _want_ us to? Is it an exercise to a purpose? Or are you just selfishly forcing me down memory lane to no purpose, Potter, with all this talk of ‘special’ this and ‘secret’ that? Because I can’t say as I appreciate it. I Pensieve certain things for a reason, as you know, plus it’s Protocol--”
> 
> “Yes, yes,” Potter exclaimed, throwing up his hands and assuming a major frowny-face. “There’s a point, Draco, of course there’s a point. And that is--”
> 
>  

Now, here’s the thing, the real reason behind even bothering to Pensieve this particular Ponder: why on Gaia’s green earth would Potter even want me to know all this gloriously inane backstory? Why would he _care_? We work well together--yes, Potter, we do, I admit it--and we accomplish our duties as required. Snape’s never once shown any interest in me knowing any more than I already vaguely recall about what happened after the final Battle. And I cannot for the life of me remember a single real instance where me knowing about the Felix or the Bezoar or that damned kiss you tricked me with, Potter, have ever impacted what I do for a living!

Granger, do not even go there. Not a word!

What I do remember, I remember unwillingly. And I certainly do not dwell!

 

 

 

> “--that is, that you aren’t complete, Draco. You’re in denial, alright?” Potter accused.  “You are using the Pensieve Protocol to hide from us, _from me_ , fuck it all, and you seem to have not a fucking ounce of shame in your twisted little soul for doing so! Fucking coward.”
> 
> “Potter! Potter, calm yourself, please,” Draco said hastily, catching at Potter’s rising arm to force it down. He needed no more jabbing fingertips, ta ever so much, and he certainly needed Potter to stop shouting.
> 
> The flat of his hand slid up the arm and somehow over to Potter’s heaving chest; he kept it laid there, long fingers spread out, silently willing Potter to listen.
> 
> “Just—please, Harry? You’re irrational. Or, if not irrational,” he inserted, as Potter twitched at him, “certainly upset. That is absolutely the last thing I’m doing, running away or hiding,” he said, as sternly and as convincingly as he could manage in the face of a now quiet Potter’s searching gaze. “Malfoys are many things, yes, but we are not cowards. I’m cognizant that we have--pardon, have had, been having, likely will have, ahem--” he inserted, flinching a little at the jade-gold flare up in Potter’s eyes. “A...uh. Aahhh. Er. Relations.”
> 
> “Oh, really?” Potter jacked up an eyebrow in a skeptical way, pursing his lips. “Is that what it is, then? ‘Relations’. Fancy.”
> 
> Draco gulped. He truly hated to attach the word to it, what it was and had been, but there wasn’t another that suited. But it somehow seemed that he hated Potter’s flat tone and skeptical look even more.
> 
> “Fine,” he said hastily. “To put it plainly, yes, we are in midst of an affair. I’m not avoiding it, Potter--fuck’s sake, Harry, as you’ve brought us to this yet again when we shouldn’t even be thinking about anything else much less discussing it when there’s real work to done, but--but. _But_. It has to stop now. It must. Now’s not the time to--”
> 
> “But me no buts, Draco Malfoy,” Potter sliced in, shutting Draco down mid-syllable without an apparent qualm. Lips twisting sourly to match the dark furrow of his brows, he nodded sharply at Draco, flicking a fingertip scornfully at Draco’s hand still resting upon his breast bone.  “You can talk all you like, probably talk circles right around me, as always, but the fact remains--”
> 
> ”The fact remains, _Harry_ ,” Draco rushed in return to speak over Potter, “that work is work and shagging is shagging and the twain shall not meet. At least not in the office and not on the job. And that’s Snape saying that and not just me, Potter, so you can put that in your fucking cauldron and fucking counter-clockwise _puree_ it!”
> 
> “There is no hard and fast rule about that, Draco! And we are not at work all the fucking time, either!” Harry threw off Draco’s hand with an impatient gesture.
> 
> He stepped back and turned away, his back squarely turned.
> 
> “There’s plenty of times we could’ve discussed it, Draco. What you’ve been doing—why you don’t want to remember things.”
> 
> Even angry and as tense as he was, Draco admired it, Potter’s back. It was shapely, as was the better part of Potter, and he desired to touch it, to run a soothing hand across the strong lines and the flowing folds of uniform cloak which obscured them. That he was often able to do just as he longed to at the moment made no difference, though--at _this_ moment. This was work and that was personal and he’d gone to great lengths, he was certain, to ensure that there’d never be cause for dismissal--for either of them.
> 
> “That’s an excuse and a paltry one at that. You’ll have to do better.”
> 
> “No.”
> 
> Draco  neatly shoved the protruding chairs beneath the lip of the long abandoned table. The slight scrape of wooden feet across the flooring did nothing to ease the tense atmosphere; they seemed to have gone from petty squabble to complete disarray in only a matter of moments.
> 
> “No,” he repeated quietly. He closed his eyes for a long moment, smelling disaster in the stale air of the chamber. But he couldn’t care about that, not in the moment; he couldn’t afford to. “No, sorry. This is inappropriate. And I’m leaving, Potter. Done for the day. I will see you tomorrow. Perhaps when you’ve had a chance to reconsider, hmm?”
> 
> “ _N-Not_ alright,” Potter shuddered, choking it out as if crying. “No!”
> 
> It halted Draco right in his tracks, stayed his hand where it rested on the door knob. It panged him, right in the heart of him, but he couldn’t give in. That way lay a certain madness, and he’d had more than his fair share of madness.
> 
> “Not alright a’tall, you fucking coward!”
> 
> Potter spun about and sprinted nimbly around the table, fetching up abruptly at Draco’s shoulder.
> 
> “I called you a coward because you are a coward! You’ve been running since I bloody caught you the first time and it’s time you--it’s past time you! Stop. Fucking. _Leaving_. Me!”
> 
>  

This. This, right here.

This is where I truly resent the Ponder Pensieve Protocol. This shedding of supposed ‘non-essential’ information, you know? On the surface, it seems so logical, doesn’t it? I mean, there’s memories that no one wants to relive, over and over, and one can only take so much Dreamless or go through so much talking to Healer, and still, some things linger. They shape you, Potter-- _Harry_.

They change you, down to the bone.

And I have to say it, though I hate to say it, even off-record, but it hurts, Harry: I’m not the one who’s been running, _you are_.

It’s always been you--retreating. Teasing! You dance around it, you treat it casually, as if it’s perfectly normal, to be shagging one’s co-worker, one’s schoolmate, one’s old enemy, and to be doing it so obviously, so much out in the eye of the world, unashamed and irreverent. Practically under the eye of Snape of all people--and of _you_ , Granger, and for Merlin’s sake, kindly have the courtesy to pull your head out of this fucking Pensieve, alright? If you’ve not left off already, that is, and I pray Merlin you have, as my friend, at least.

Alright, then. Let’s stop mashing the fucking flobberworm to jelly and just get down to giving you what you really wanted--what you wanted when you created that scene, just now-- _Harry_.

Harry, I suppose this _is_ a sort of apology. As much of one as I can make, at least. You claim I’ve been deliberately forgetting, that I’ve been using the system to insulate myself from what we’re doing, what it means to both of us when we do it… You claim this, but you aren’t helping matters. It’s too easy for you. Potter--circumstances have made it too easy, yes, and I know it’s not your fault, so much, but it’s also your job to be aware. To not place the blame squarely on me, when I’m only trying to keep us in some level of balance, some manner of stability. Salazars’ ballsack, Harry, we both need that, the calmness, the peace. You know it.

I don't mean to hurt you, not even a little. Farthest thing on my mind, last thing I could want, ever. But please don't hurt _me_. Don’t say I’m leaving you when we both know I’ll never leave you, not by choice, damn it, and not by chance, either!

Certainly not due to some minor squabble over a bunch of ancient dominos and a single Pensieve Memory!

 _You_ started it, you see. You kissed me. Granted it wasn’t the most romantic of moments; surviving Fiendfyre by the literal skin of our teeth isn’t exactly mood-making. And you being fucking practical and even Slytherin-like in sharing that last mouthful of Felix didn't really tip me off to your undying fascination with yours truly. At least not at _that_ moment, Harry.

I didn’t know. I can honestly say that. I mean, of course I knew there was something between us. There’s always been something between us. I can’t deny it and I wouldn’t. But I certainly never connected your previous behaviour with any sort of loving-kindness, Potter. And I can’t make the case for mine being exactly blatant and obvious, either. You couldn’t have had a clue as to why I didn’t admit to knowing you or why I gave up my wand so easily. You clearly had no idea why you were never confronted or punished for that bloody Curse in Myrtle’s loo, either. Snape was fucking livid and I…I told him to leave it. And you? You wrote off years of teasing and adolescent attention-seeking to me just being some ‘selfish’ and ‘evil’ git, like it was normal, the level of so-called animosity between us.  Reduced it to Slytherin Cunning versus Gryffindor Pride and endless rounds of pointless ‘rivalry’. Which is ridiculous, totally absurd. But. You’ve always been bloody oblivious, Potter; why should _I_ go out of my way to enlighten you?

But _you_ did it, _you_ kissed _me_. Sometimes I’d almost have rather you’d _Kissed_ me, as Dementors do.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Good evening, yes. My name’s Harry Potter and this is my Pensieve for today’s Ponder. It’s a little complicated and perhaps I shouldn't bother, given what happened after, but. I _must_ bother, as Hermione says. Some of these memories may actually be _helpful for posterit_ y. Hermione is all about _helping posterity_ which frankly, I feel that I have done sufficiently, thank you, but. Snape is also all about _being thorough_ and he’s very unflinching when it comes to personal business interfering with work. In fact he’s been known to say--to me, more, probably, than to any other of the Unspeakables--that ‘without one’s personal life interfering with ones’ work, we’d have no motivation to work’. Which I do rather understand, what with _my_ Mum and _his_ job and his _other_ job, and then with what’s been going on between Draco and myself for what seems like forever, which now _really_ needs to be resolved. And therefore properly Pensieved, as we were in the Ponder Room when it started. Well, when I started it. And that was only because I’d been trying unsuccessfully to get him to go through all those damned Vials for ages before that and he’s bloody refused to. Because he is an arse of the first magnitude, but I apparently find that incredibly, edibly attractive. Have done for some time.

So, here we are. Or rather, here it is, my Pensieve, with some commentary:

 

> “What in the merry Ethos is wrong with you, Potter?” Aghast, Malfoy glared. He was standing tall, his chin tilted in an accusatory manner, his grey eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Severus Snape clearly doesn't like you! Never has, never will. Why would he ever consider doing anything that might please you? That’s bloody mad! Not to mention pretty bloody self-centered.”
> 
> “Er,” Harry said, chagrined. “Er, look, I'm sorry, but I forgot you didn't know. Though I suppose there’s no way you could've--they never told anyone but me about it, at least not officially, and I--I was sworn to secrecy.”
> 
> “Oh, no you don’t, Potter,” Malfoy snarled, waving an accusing forefinger at the offender. “Secrets? From a fellow Unspeakable? Thestral shite! Just stop right there--”
> 
> “No! No, really, it’s like this, Draco. Spice and Snape divvied up the Unspeakable training, right from the start. I think I may have told you this before but maybe you don’t remember? Anyway, I sort of ended up being divided between them, actually, class-wise at least, while you and the others were with Spice.”
> 
> “Merlin, kill me now.”
> 
> “But I got Snape, too! Spice wasn’t sufficient, apparently,” Harry rushed on. “It started because my Legilmens and Occulmens were never all that good, really, and maybe it had something to do with helping him save his own life and all that, but really it just meant I had more lessons. Not that that was a bad thing, as it wasn’t! That’s why I say that. Of course he’s not my mate or anything like, but he’s a brilliant instructor when he’s not actively hating a bloke, you know? Of course _you_ know; he’s always gotten on with you. But yes. He’s set me up with some brilliant Ponders, really good ones. Not to please me, _per se_ , but to teach me, you see?”
> 
> Malfoy moaned, possibly; made some sort of protesting noise, certainly. Harry frowned at him but didn't stop talking. It was better out than in, he thought. And if he were to stop taking whenever Malfoy made faces and--and noises!--at him at him, he’d never manage to say much at all.
> 
> “Lessons. Not that Spice’s weren't interesting, because they were,” he went on earnestly, nodding happily as Draco collapsed speechless into the next chair over. “I mean, she was a decent instructor, definitely, but Snape shows some real verve when it comes to whipping up a solid Mystery. Must be why he's been made Head, yeah? Aptitude. Oh, and probably experience too, come to think.” 
> 
> With another barely stifled moan, Draco gave in, ripped out a convenient chair, slumped into it and simply laid his forehead right down on the table.
> 
> “Oh Merlin, I should’ve suspected it from the start,” he winced. “In fact, I likely did and just chose to forget it, didn’t I? And of course you are the ‘special case’, Potter. Aren't you always? And we, your fellow Unspeakables, are left in the dark to moulder, unknowing, like bloody mushrooms? So? What else is new?”
> 
> “Well,” Harry replied equably, “that’s perhaps not the way I’d put it but yes. Yes.”
> 
> “Fuck you, Potter.”
> 
> “It’s not as though I was doing it deliberately, Draco,” Potter protested, although he’d the grace to colour slightly under Draco’s immediate one-eyed squint. “Snape just...just informed me, I guess, on the very first day, right after we’d been Sorted. It’s not as though I had a choice in the matter.”
> 
> Instantly, a stain of anger flushed Malfoy’s fair features, like a bloom of red algae on still silvered waters. “ _No choice in the matter;_ what, really? Really? You must be joking!”
> 
> He seemed to find it difficult to refrain from shrieking but yet managed. Biting each syllable out was apparently nearly as satisfactory.
> 
> “That same old card, Potter? What, are you seriously telling me this is the natural result of yet another life-altering prophecy? You, being singled out to be taught to be Unspeakable by the single greatest spy of the entire Order of the Phoenix? Hah! Well, fuck right off with that. Severus probably just wanted you under his eye so he could prevent you making a cock-up of things. He knew you’d be applying to Ministry just like everyone else and he didn’t want you running amok! That’s probably the entire reason--and not because you're bloody special.”
> 
> “Oh, fucking Merlin, Draco, I _am_ special, alright?” Harry was forced to glare back. Reluctantly. He really didn’t enjoy it when his partner was narked at him.
> 
> “Tell me about it, Potter.”
> 
> “So fucking sorry--not!” Harry went on, gathering a head of steam under Draco’s patently disbelieving sneer. “But I am and so are you, you plonker, and you bloody well know it, you stupid self-inflicted martyr, but now it’s definitely past time you fucking recalled what really happened back then. Because I don’t see how we are going to work together if you don’t! It’s been hard enough never admitting we’ve been fucking all these years! I’m sick of it! Hacked off enough now that I’m going to end it if you don’t, Draco!”
> 
> “Huh?” Draco blinked. “End it? Wait, _why_ would you end it? Why is our fucking even a problem, Potter? That has nothing to do with this--this favouritism! Severus should’ve told us. Me, at the very least, once he made us official. Pardon me, but I don’t happen to like it if my supposed partner knows more than I do about what’s meant to be a shared responsibility!”
> 
> Sitting up, he shook his head to clear it and returned intently the steady gaze challenging him.
> 
> “And what...what do you mean by that, exactly? Potter? I can’t say as I see how my--our--work is affected. Hermione would’ve dropped us a hint, I’m sure. Pansy or Luna certainly would’ve. And we’ve been very discreet, you know we have.”
> 
> “Oh, bloody Merlin,” Harry sighed his exasperation. “Yeah, we have been, haven’t we? So bloody fucking discreet you don’t even seem to know about it half the time!”
> 
> “Now, now, Potter, that’s not fair. It’s the effect of the Protocol, that’s all,” Draco interjected quickly, tutting and shaking his sleek fair head. “It wears off after a few days; you know that just as well as I do! It’s not an Obliviate, it’s a Suppressorate. It just removes the Pivot.”
> 
>  

I’m sorry; I just have to stop here. I’m going to skip a bit. I’m sorry, Hermione. I know you say these are ‘teachable moments’ and ‘we need to preserve them for the benefit of future Unspeakables, Harry!’ and ‘no one will even care in a hundred years, Harry’ but really. I care, Hermione. I already lived through this scene once. I’d like to let it fade away naturally.

You see, we had an argument, Draco and I. He’s been overusing the Pensieves. He’s been doing it for years, which I knew about, at least enough to understand that he needed to not have certain Memories always right there, ready to be tripped into the forefront of his brain. We already have so much to know, to understand, in a deep and fundamental manner, as Unspeakable agents, so we can do our job. It’s a lot to ask of a Witch or Wizard, and that may be why there’s so few of us. But Draco..Draco’s been ‘Sieving us. He’s been putting us away in little vials and I—I can’t stand it anymore. It’s been years now. Years, fucking years, and every month it’s a little worse. Every month he—

Well, it ended up with him almost leaving and I ran after him. I always do. I knew he wasn’t really leaving, but it hurt. It always does. I had a plan this time, though. You see, I know he can’t use Legilmens on me; no one can, not even Snape. He’s a little testy about that but, hey. I can throw off an Imperius. What can I say, right? Once I got the hang of it, it was easy-peasy.

Anyway, my plan was very simple. I can’t ask him to look at his own Memories. I swore an Oath to Snape that I wouldn’t. But I can ask him to look at mine.

One particular Memory, specifically. So I calmed him down and dragged him back again to the table, still vaguely protesting.

And he came along anyway, which was how I knew…well, how I knew this was _the_ moment. The end of it, finally.  Because Draco always knows his own mind, what's left of it. 

 

> “--whatever you say, Malfoy,” Harry said, waving Draco’s excuses off like so much stray Kneazle hair. “Look, if you don’t get it by now, then this is really going to be a problem. Mainly because I’m going to make it one, alright? But all I need you do right this moment is to cooperate, just a little bit. Hang on a moment; let me see if I can find something to help you along with that, okay?”
> 
> Harry left the table, somewhat unconventionally, and began searching hurriedly through a series of wall cupboards, all of which had helpfully re-Materialized about the perimeter of the Ponder Chamber.
> 
> Like the table itself, the room was a long oval, ringed about with what appeared to be blank wall panels interspersed with the occasional portrait of long-dead Unspeakables and neatly intersected by two sets of wide doorways, set at opposing sides of the widest part of the oval. Everything was done up in shades of pale wood and steely grey-tones, the lighting was sharp and bright and Harry was secretly certain that some Ministry official in charge of decor had been a raging fan of Swedish Modern as expressed by classic Ikea--or perhaps more the Muggle corporate decor of the ‘80’s, what with all the ergonomic chairs, expanses of unstained pine and the perplexing array of severe accents.
> 
> In any event, it had become a sort of second Common Room to the younger Unspeakables and a favoured haunt of Snape’s Kneazle. He seemed to enjoy napping and skulking about in the cabinets and often took advantage of the interesting two-way effect, in which one could access a cabinet from either within or without the chamber. And sometimes from a different level of the Ministry altogether.
> 
> Truly, some nameless Ministry official had been perhaps overly inspired by Muggle dumb waiters as well. One never really knew and even the Unspeakables didn’t like to talk about Ministry décor.
> 
> Draco, meanwhile, muttered at Harry’s back, darkly and under his breath, as Harry continued to move about, snapping the cabinet doors open and slamming them shut behind. Malfoy followed his progress with a leery eye but made no move to help. They both knew what to expect from the room and both knew that rushing it into giving up its secrets was futile. Ponder Chambers were mysterious places, especially within the confines of the Department of Mysteries proper, and one never quite knew what one might find.
> 
> “Oh, there you are, kitty! Lovely; you’re just what was needed.”
> 
> What Harry found miaowed. Purred, and then twined under Harry’s reaching hands for pets and continually emitted a floating cloud of ginger-and-white fur as it willing leapt into Harry’s reaching arms.
> 
> “Aha!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Naughty puss; you were hiding from us all along, weren’t you?”
> 
> “Er, Potter,” Malfoy apparently felt compelled to point out, “that’s Severus’s Kneazle, I believe. Why would you want him?”
> 
> “Because he’s got what I need, Draco. Or rather, what you need.”
> 
> Harry smiled sweetly, staggering slightly as he hefted his prize and brought Snape’s pet over to the table. He settled into the chair next to Draco with a little sigh, enveloping them both in the storm of purring and incidental clouds of dander.
> 
>  “It’s simple,” he said, fiddling with the Kneazle’s collar. “Snape always keeps a shrunken pensieve on Kitty and Kitty is a of course a Kneazle, as you so saliently noted, and therefore _he_ always knows when he is needed. And right now we are desperately in need of a Pensieve.”
> 
> “Potter, whyever would we need a Pensieve?” Malfoy questioned, reaching out to give the Kneazle a friendly chuck under the chin. “We’re still working on this Ponder and it’s not time yet to Pensieve it officially.”
> 
> “Not what I’m talking about, Malfoy,” Harry replied absently, wrestling with a tiny fob attached to the Kneazle’s collar. “Ah, here we go!”
> 
> With a happy cry, he put the miniaturized stone chalice on the smooth surface of the table and UnShrunk it wandlessly.
> 
> “Now we can clear this up, once and for all, Draco,” he said, beaming at his co-worker. Deftly, he pulled a tiny silvered vial out of his robe’s sleeve, where it had been hidden all along, and poured the contents into the Pensieve with a flourish. “Just stick your pointy head into this one and then tell me what you think of things after, will you?” he requested, as innocently as he could manage.
> 
> “I suppose that explains the ginger fur mixed up in the Ponder,” Draco said snidely, waving at yet another cloud of it. “You’ve set this up quite handily, haven’t you?” He continued to pet the the young Kneazle, though, making no move to do as Harry wanted. “I don’t know that I’m in the mood to please you, Potter.”
> 
> “But it would please me ever so much, Malfoy,” Harry rejoined instantly. “You know how Hermione and Snape are always going on about ‘quality control’ and the like. “I’m only trying to make sure we’re on the same page, is all. Please—pretty please, with treacle on top? Would you?”
> 
>  “Well,” Draco shrugged, “I suppose that’s alright, if that’s what you’re really up to.” He glanced between the Pensieve and Harry’s eager expression. “That is what this is all about, isn’t it? Something to do with the work or…Or, are we just going for a ramble through ancient history for the fuck of it? Because I really don’t want to do that.”
> 
> “No. You,” Harry said firmly, jabbing a finger in Draco’s direction, “are missing a few too many memories, especially ones of a certain sort. On purpose, actually, as in _deliberately_ , which is foolish and painful and--” He jabbed the fingertip forcefully. “Stupid, stupid.”
> 
> “Pardon?” Draco snorted. “’Missing’? As in ‘lost, forever, never to be seen again’? I highly doubt that, Potter. I think you’ll find you are grossly mistaken. I make it a point to carefully recall anything that might be useful and I keep a spotless record of all that I Pensieve; just ask Granger, damn it! You think she wouldn’t have my arse in a wringer if I didn’t? Merlin, Potter! I find it deeply offensive that you’ve chosen this particular moment to dare accuse me of incompetence at work!”
> 
> “I’m not,” Potter shot back, “and I'll prove it, Malfoy. If you would just hear me out and stick your fucking stubborn head in, like I’m asking you to.”
> 
> With a quick motion, he scooped the purring Kneazle aside and shoved the Pensieve over carefully, till it was resting directly before Draco’s outraged face.
> 
> “This is the reason why Snape kept us separate for a lot of our training, arsehole--and you were the idiot who asked him to do it! I just happen to be the idiot who went along with it all these years but, trust me, I’m done now! Now, look, for Godric’s sake, will you? Just. Look.”
> 
>  

Hermione, if you’re still with me here, you’ll have sorted out that this is personal. With a capital ‘P’ personal, so please kindly get your head out and keep Pansy and the rest of them out of it as well.

Draco, you’d better be taking note of how much I fucking adore you, even though you’ve essentially deliberately Confounded yourself repeatedly over three whole fucking years and then denying doing it. I don’t blame you, love, but I do blame you—and you have to know _why_. The Beltane Gala is coming, you complete git, and I’m not making excuses to Snape or Shacklebolt or Ron or--fuck’s sake, your own damned mother--this year!

And I’m tired of living with only part of you, Draco. I need all of you. All the time, twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five.

Stop running, damn your gorgeous arse. Stay with me.

 

> “Potter, if you think this is amusing, I sincerely pity you,” Draco asserted calmly.  “I’m clearly not laughing. And I begin to wonder if all your ‘special lessons’ did you any good at all. Because all I’m seeing in you at this moment is a mind full of Muggle disco balls and bunting and you’re not even trying to Occulude me a’tall! Why on Gaia’s green earth are you worried about the Beltane Ball?”
> 
> Harry reached out and laid his hand upon the tense line of Draco’s shoulder. “Love, I’m not Occluding you; I never do. And that’s not what this is about. It’s not about secrets or ‘special lessons’ or anything like that,” he said, well aware of the pleading note that had entered his voice. “Trust me.”
> 
> “Yeah?” Draco said, glancing away from Harry to the Pensieve, silently awaiting his entry. “Then why do I feel like you’re trying to trick me somehow, Potter? Why do I feel like this is a trap?”
> 
> “You shouldn’t, really,” Harry replied, sliding his hand over sufficient to cradle the other man’s nape. It was slightly damp, as if Malfoy had been perspiring all this time. “This isn’t a trick or a trap. I think we’re long past that point, Draco. And I don’t want to ‘end it’; I never did. It’s just...it’s just, it’s been long enough now, alright? So, please, just trust me? You’ve trusted me enough all these years, haven’t you? Knowing full well I had all your Pensieves. And now all I want to do is give one little Memory back to you. It’s not even your Memory, it’s mine. It’s more than time enough for that.”
> 
> There was silence, as Malfoy continued to regard the Pensieve and Harry continued to regard Malfoy. With a definite element of anxiety visible.
> 
> “Um, Draco?” he prompted, after a long moment.
> 
> “Fine, fuck it,” Malfoy said suddenly. He thrust out his long arms and stretched them, twisting about to crack his back. Resttling himself, he regarded the waiting Pensieve with a stony expression. “If it means you’ll stop hounding me about it once and for all, Potter, then I’ll--”
> 
> “I--”
> 
> “I’ll do it, alright? So shut it, Potty,” Malfoy snapped. “You’re getting what you want, alright? Just as you always do. Jesus Merlin fuck, the things I find myself doing for you!”
> 
> Without further adieu, Malfoy stuck his head in the Pensieve.


	3. Chapter 3

Severus Snape, Department of Mysteries. An unusual episode occurred today and I feel that a Pensieve of the event may be useful to some. I should hope that it will, to be precise, as some of my younger Unspeakables have had their heads inserted up their arses for far too long than is good for them--or for the Department. We exist to know things, all manner of things, and it’s hardly helpful to deliberately not know them.

To proceed: I was in the midst of a not unusual day in the Ministry when I had cause to proceed to the vicinity of the largest of our Ponder Chambers. This is the Eye, as Granger-Weasley insists upon calling it, due to its shape and orientation. The room contains a conference table, appropriately shaped as a long oval, and it is ringed with a series of storage cupboards. These open from either within or without the room proper, thus access may be obtained to the goings on in the room via a view through a cubby. From any level. This feature, although odd, has proved to be a bonus. The Kneazle Lovegood insisted on presenting me as a ‘recovery animal’ is very fond of napping in these Transforming Cupboards. I am able to retrieve the pestilent creature without disturbing any occupants busy with a Ponder. Additionally, when doing so, I am often able to check in on the progress of those Unspeakables.

Today the room was in use by Malfoy and Potter. Usually I have them working away on the restoration of the Prophecies when there is slack time at the Ministry and the Unspeakables are at leisure to do as they will. Or as I will, of course. I do like to keep up the rather tedious work on the Reparo of the many, many prophecy orbs which were damaged during the war against He-Who-Was-A-Complete-Failure-Thank-Merlin, Albus and Potter, but today I had planned a somewhat out-of-the-ordinary Ponder for these two Unspeakables in particular.

Madame Spice and I have discussed the escalating and perverse situation between these two young twits at length. We’ve decided that more than enough valuable time and energy has been wasted already by their stubborn refusal to participate in the annual Beltane Gala. Caution, of course, can certainly be a virtue but there are times when an excess is execrable!

The Gala is but the tip of the proverbial Wizarding society iceberg but it does serve as a convenient excuse to make known to Wizarding society at large that two persons are officially of abiding interest to one another and engaged in some sort of consensual and generally sexual (possibly even ‘loving’, Merlin forfend!) relationship.

If nothing else, attendance with a partner tends to quiet the gossip rags and far too much attention has been paid to the Potter-Malfoy on-again, off-again, are-they, aren’t-they for my liking, as Head of DoM.

Now, I am _not_ one for pomp and circumstance, much less a bounty of bunting, boughs, watered-down mead and politicos, but the Ministry’s Beltane Gala actually does pre-date the Ministry itself and is therefore one of the last vestiges of our ancient roots in Magic. Bluntly put, it is a formalized version of the Beltane rituals, in which the participants indicate by their presence in a large social company that they have chosen their particular ‘mates’, as it were. The entire Ministry decamps for it, generally to Stonehenge, the largest and least troublesome local venue of magical power and there is liberal libation, silly leaping of the Beltane bonfires and, eventually, fornification, some of which is entirely random (perhaps) but most of which is not. Not every employee of the Ministry attends every year, naturally, just as not every Witch or Wizard feels the inner call to find a pliable willing partner on this night of general sex, silliness and serendipitous exchange of bodily fluids. I must say, it does help with planning for maternity and paternity leaves ‘round the hols, which is useful to the Ministry’s administrators. Now, the modern Wizard or Witch, I find, and especially the Muggleborn contingent, often forgets--or perhaps isn’t even ever made aware, and for that I call down shame upon Binns and his preference for war over love!--that the celebration of Beltane is as compelling as any draught of Amortmentia. Every creature seeks love and comfort of some sort, as Lovegood does enjoy reiterating, and Beltane is _the_ vehicle for achieving it.

Perhaps that is why Lovegood presented me this Kneazle, terribly and arbitrarily pre-named Nesbit Noodle, as a sort of sop and companion during what can be the loneliest night of the year for some. I am, as one might be informed, not a usual attendee of the Gala. I must admit that petting the creature does indeed extend a feeling of well-being and comfort of an evening, for which I am duly grateful to Lovegood. And young Nesbit does have his practical uses as well. To wit, he apparently can Apparate wherever he pleases, he’s quite friendly with those individuals he likes and he has no objection to carrying about on his person a small version of the Pensieves so prevalent in our Department.

In Mysteries we prefer to know things, as much as possible. It’s preferable, we feel, to not knowing. We naturally aren’t required to share any specific knowledge but we often do, especially to the Aurors and the Archivists. But knowing a great deal has its own dangers. Important items can be obscured by the trivial and vice versa. It is our practice and has been for centuries to use the Pensieve--a tool we invented, thank you ever so much--to relieve our ever-questioning minds of a modicum of the immense pressure. That is all well and good but it can also lead to some varieties of mis-use.

As I was saying, I was in process of retrieving my wayward Kneazle from one of the cubbies in the Eye Room when I had cause to pause and observe the activities of Potter and Malfoy. Potter had been careless in his closing of the cabinet doors and it was but a simple wandless spell to coax the door of the one my Nesbit had been resting in just a little amount more open, sufficient to obtain an excellent vantage point of the action as it played out.

 

 

> “You are the one, Harry, who runs away, so don’t you dare accuse me, pot-kettle!” Malfoy shouted.
> 
> “Oh, fuck, Draco, if you would just look at this? Just, for one moment in your existence, maybe admit that you don’t know the whole of everything and look at what really happened, from where I was standing? Would it cost your pride so much that you cannot even do that--for me?” Potter shouted right back.
> 
> There was further shouting, and some dragging of each other about. 
> 
> Both Unspeakables, it appeared, were but seconds away from wand-drawing and hexing, so I paused to continue observation via the conveniently obscure cabinet, with a mind towards timely intervention as needed.
> 
> My darling Sweetums must have sensed my presence and instantly sought me out, abandoning the attentions of Potter and Malfoy. They were quite self-absorbed in any case. I continued to await events and the attendant nattering at each other.
> 
> “For you?” Malfoy had subsided somewhat, his face a picture of misery. “What haven’t I done for you, Harry? What wouldn’t I do for you is more the question, and the answer is, nothing! There’s nothing I wouldn't do and you know it, so stuff that into your cauldron--”
> 
> Upon the table between them was the small Pensieve we keep available. I had noticed as I gathered up my purring companion that his collar had been loosened. Shouting between Potter and Malfoy is also not the usual state of affairs; in general these boys manage to rub along nicely. Almost too nicely, considering neither has made a move to end all our miseries and commit to one another officially.
> 
> “Then please, Draco,” Harry gestured at the Pensieve, “just. _Please_. Do this one last thing for me.”
> 
> “Fine, very well!”
> 
> Draco, whom I’ve known since he was a young boy, even before his years at Hogwarts, seemed as distraught as I have ever seen him. Much as he was that night up on the Tower. It was startling to witness, and somewhat upsetting. He masked it well, but yet.
> 
> Unbidden, the tenuous remnants of my long-held resentment of Harry Potter came to the forefront of my mind, despite my bid against them. I must admit I laid a hand upon my wand. Fortunately, Harry choose to use the hand he had laid upon Draco’s back to provide a gesture of comfort, slowly rubbing in a circular motion. This seemed to have the desired effect; both idiots ceased their shouting.
> 
> “Thank you,” Harry said softly. He stared intently at my godson. “You won't regret it, I promise you.”
> 
> “Bloody fucking--” Draco mumbled and promptly stuck his head in the Pensieve. I watched, mine own heart rate slightly arrhythmic, as his shoulders twitched under Harry’s continued caress. In a moment, they slumped, as if he were but a marionette with his strings cut, and it seemed as though Draco had relaxed into the experience.

Pensieve Memories, of course, have an odd atmosphere to them. One feels as though one is the person originally experiencing the captured moments, yet one is also aware of oneself. It is disquieting, to say the least, especially as perception of events always varies from individual to individual normally. That is, naturally, one reason we have the Protocol. There are other reasons, of course, but I do not necessarily need to speak of them.

 

> Time passed, of course. I awaited Draco’s return from the Pensieve memory Harry had made ready. Although I am not certain as to the exact memory within, I’d already assumed it had something to do with their _affaire d’cour_. In any event, the results should be enlightening.
> 
>  
> 
>  


	4. Chapter 4

Pensieve memories are often cold to begin with. It’s as though one were suddenly immersed in the freezing depths of the Lake at Hogwarts. And there’s an odd sensation of having double vision, of being just slightly to the left of center, all a’kilter. When I adjusted to it, as much as one may when it’s someone else's Memory, all _I_ could see and smell was the evidence of fire. Horrible, horrible Fyre.

But I was effectively looking through Harry’s eyes--and that was the shock of it, more than anything.

> “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Potter!” the vision of my younger self was saying, over and over again, as if caught in a faulty time-turner. Through Harry’s eyes I saw that I, or rather, younger Draco, was a mess. My hair was askew and ruffled, singed a bit on the fringe, as were my robes. I was filthy with ash and looked like I’d been hit with a Stunner, all gaping babbling mouth and wild eyes. I glanced down at Harry’s person, taking in the similar state and condition he was in and knew where--and when--I was instantly.
> 
> “Shit, shit, shit,” Harry’s mouth was saying. “Merlin! Are you alright--Malfoy? Draco?” Harry turned about, spinning in place, catching sight of his friends. “Ron? Ron! Hermione? Are you--is Goyle?”
> 
> There was so much noise and then the stench. The stench was awful. I could see my younger self wincing at it, all the while still rabbiting on at Harry. Reaching out, even, perhaps to lay a hand upon his/my rescuer, to make certain he was really living and breathing--safe.
> 
> Draco looked so frightened, so relieved, so very raw, so alive. He was.
> 
> _Fucking beautiful_.
> 
> T’was the night of the Battle. And we’d just escaped the Fiendfyre. I could just hear the voices of Hermione and Ron/Ronald nearby, although it felt as it were through a wall of glass, muffling all immediate noises; Goyle was sobbing, great gulps and wails, and mumbling snottily about ‘not meaning it, not meaning it a’tall!’. But Harry’s--my!--eyes were on Malfoy and they got wide and then wider for an instant. Struck by the realization that here was the very faint hope he’d been looking for, here in the person of a struck-dumb Malfoy, he glanced down at his one pocket suddenly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
> 
> He was instantly back to me, assessing the state of younger me was standing just a pace from him, not even. The broom had already clattered away; we were both still vaguely slapping at our robes and hair to extinguish the remaining sparks of the Fiendfyre  and there was a feeling of looming pandemonium. My--Harry’s--stomach twisted and I--Harry--waved away Ronald and Hermione, mumbling about needing to do something--something to do with Professor Snape.
> 
> Harry smelt blood; well, I smelt it, in his memory. His robes were splashed with it, huge amounts, as if someone had bled out upon him. He shuddered and shoved his hand in his pocket. Felt about for a—for a vial. A potion!
> 
> “--Malfoy, Malfoy!” His voice was rough and ragged. I watched my younger self jerk to attention. “You’ll have to do, I don’t have time, but someone--someone's got to go to him or he’ll die!”
> 
> I hear this, I hear myself/Harry but also all is hear in my own head is this ringing, displaced Harry-voice saying, ‘Fuck it, I want to--him, _him_!”
> 
> Harry grinds his teeth, jaw setting and he grabs at me--other me, younger me, unsuspecting me--and drags at Draco--me, unsuspecting me. I see myself stumble forward. I’m under his hands, breathing hard, and it’s.
> 
> _Beautiful_.
> 
> I feel the rush of my arm rising as I snag a mostly empty vial from his pocket, and then I feel--as Harry, as the shadow of this Harry from years ago--the tangy refreshing intoxicating taste of Felix on my tongue. It’s delicious. I want to taste him tasting it. Like nothing I’ve ever wanted more.
> 
> This Draco in Harry’s memory doesn’t even struggle; he just goes as I yank him ‘round a corner, leaving Ronald, Hermione and a sobbing Goyle behind. The vial is dropped, and shatters unheeded as he grabs at Draco’s face. As I grab at me. I’m filthy; so is Harry, all sooty and stinking of burning things.
> 
> _He smells so good!_
> 
> Harry says nothing, nothing at all. He can’t, can he, with a mouthful of Felix? And Draco just stands there as Harry shoves him up against the wall and sets his hands carefully on both sides of his jaw. His fingertips slip deliberately; teasing my younger self’s mouth open, ever so slightly.
> 
> With a muffled grunt, a huff through his nostrils, Harry’s cocked his head a little bit, just enough to avoid crashing those horrid spectacle frames into Draco’s face and he’s not pausing at all, but plunging his tongue past Draco’s parted lips, propelling a dollop of potion as he kisses the man.
> 
> _Me_ , that is. As he kisses _me_.

 

I’ve been in Harry’s head many times over now; that’s what Pensieves are all about in DoM. Looking for things that have been overlooked, seeking connections to familiar or unfamiliar to the one who originally experienced them to be understood, but easy to see with fresh eyes. But I’ve never before seen this one. Not this particular one. My _own_ recollection, yes. And that was  startling and shocking and perhaps shamefully raw. Which is why I started Pensieving in the first place, naturally.

I’m a Slytherin, first and foremost, and an Unspeakable. I’m his bloody fucking _lover_ ; have been for years. Why borrow agony?

 

> “M-Malfoy,” Harry breathes, drawing back for the barest of instants, “I need--I need you to do something. Will you?”
> 
> Malfoy doesn't answer; he can’t. His face is flushed and pale all at once, his eyes glitter before he shuts them tight. Perhaps against the invasion of Harry’s tongue, but still, there’s no defiance. He nods, just slightly, gulping as he swallows, his slim throat working under Harry’s careful fingertips as the remnants of Felix are swallowed. Like a primal drumbeat, a Beltane cadence, Harry’s heart thunders in his chest.
> 
> He hadn’t known he needed this until he needed this.
> 
> _I want him, I want him, oh, fuck but I want him_ runs through the tattered tendrils of his semi-focused consciousness, the parts of Harry’s brain not so deep buried into sensation as to be nullified completely by carnal instinct.

 

_Beautiful?_ Harry?

 

> He’s hard, the swell of his cock poking at the well-worn fibers of his denims, and he’s sweating, so much so his hands start to slip where they grasp at the pale young man snogging him just as fiercely in return. Malfoy’s just as hard and his hands grip at Harry enough to leave bruises, were they ever to settle.
> 
> “Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy groans, fumbling at Harry’s trousers, seeking his flies, and Harry responds with an answering noise and by pressing his thrusting hips ever closer. Not practical in the least but he needs the grind-and-roll more than oxygen. “C’mere, you.”
> 
> _Snape, though._
> 
> There’s still Snape. And there’s the wisp of a plan to save that heroic arsehole still floating about Harry’s mind, fighting to be heard between thoughts of wanting to get off right smart and wondering how the fuck he never realized it was Malfoy he wanted more than anything.
> 
> Snape.
> 
> Malfoy’s so intoxicating, so warm and alive and eager, and Harry’s at war with himself but in the best of ways. If only there was more time and less urgency of an entirely different nature. I want him, I want him, pounds endlessly through his bloodstream, his hind-brain, his drawn-up sac. Right now, right here, I want him, fuck it.
> 
> It’s all and everything I--Harry--has in him to tamp down that urge to get naked and horizontal and be fucking.

 

I’m cursing myself, doubly so, as I, Draco, swim in the streams of his memory. My Harry. I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t. Not at the time and not after. I just. I just took what I could get, okay?

 

> “Oh please! Oh, please, Malfoy,” Harry whispers, a growling reedy murmur as he rips his lips away from heaven and noses down Malfoy’s neck. The other boy smells so good, and the tick-tock of his ribcage is like a balm to Harry’s questing fingers. “You’re so damned--I need--fuck, I need your help!” he gurgles, grasping at Malfoy’s arse cheeks like a man dying of thirst. “Snape--Snape’s hurt. Needs help; he needs you!”
> 
> Draco gurgles faintly as he jerks an affirmation with that pointy chin of his, his eyes shielded by lashes glinting, so nearly shut only a sliver of silver darkened to pewter gleams through. His mouth is reddened and wet; Harry’s instinct nearly overcomes him at the slight, the smell of musk rising between them, the knowledge this boy is his for the taking.
> 
> “Yeah, yeah, whatever--whatever you want, Potter,” Malfoy mutters, his voice all husky and a little creaky. “But--but?”
> 
> His eyes snap fully open as he steps back a pace, sharpening to trail down Harry’s body in a leisurely fashion. Harry can’t help but note the little uplift of a kiss-swollen upper lip when that silvery gaze lands upon the obvious bulge behind his flies; Draco’s pleased, obviously, and Harry finds he simply has to smirk right back at him. In fun more than anything, right? It's their little secret now, isn’t it? That they both desire nothing more than to drop trou and have at it, pull each other off, right here, right now, but they also both know it’ll have to wait.
> 
> Snape. Bloody Snape.

 

I, Draco, am as caught up as I, Harry, is, in Memory, fully entranced by the moment, the connection between us--a connection I’d never been entirely certain was truly mutual.

> “W-Wait,” Draco says, and Harry/me admires his throat as it swallows, gauging the gulp in the liminal spaces of his mind devoted to sex and more sex and how much sex I/he’d/we’d like to be having right now (and isn’t/aren’t, but that’s a weirdly lesser issue, now he knows he _can_ ).
> 
> “You.”
> 
> Malfoy sort of stumbles on verbally, a hint of growl in his voice as Harry’s hands grip at his elbows, and he’s not fighting _that_ either.
> 
> “Yes?”
> 
> “You _will_ be here when I--I mean.”
> 
> He gulps again; it’s so fucking fascinating, watching the swallow, thinking about the swallow, Harry nearly forgets completely the excellent Snape-saving plan he’s got to relay spit-spot, or just as soon as Draco shuts his very inviting mouth and lets him. He nods encouragingly, willing the other boy to finish whatever thought he’s so clearly struggling with. Time’s up but time’s capable of stretching out.
> 
> For a moment. I—we—Harry-and-me, we look at each other and see. We _see_.
> 
> “I mean, don’t you dare _die_ , Potty,” Draco finally snaps, drawing himself up to his full height and staring down his nose at Harry. “You owe me, understand? No running out on me, Scarhead.”
> 
> All Harry hears is _Don’t leave me_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Now, when Harry Potter first sorted into the Unspeakable force, I must admit I was surprised. Really more displeased than surprised, honestly. I’d always known him to be impulsive and sly, saucy and antagonistic as a student. That this was coloured by my own experiences at the hands of his arse of a father was known to me, even then, but still. He was both impertinent and impatient and it troubled me greatly that our combined fates should rest upon the shoulders of a boy of this ilk.

His actions during the Battle, however, influenced me. Positively. I was greatly damaged by Nagini and time was excruciatingly short. I’d taken steps, naturally enough, anticipating Voldemort turning against me at any time, but there is only so much preparation and planning one may affect. It was Harry who sent young Draco back to my aid. That fact altered my view of him ever after, to the positive, of course, and, although I was miffed upon learning he would be my responsibility in life on a continued basis, as an employee rather than a student, I was also resigned. I knew, naturally, that he’d been remiss in his studies and that he was ill-prepared for his job as an Unspeakable. But who was not, of that cohort? Even Hermione Granger freely admitted she was lacking in some areas.

To that end, Madame Spice and I developed a course of action to remediate Harry’s deficiencies. An Unspeakable is a fount of knowledge, wide and varied knowledge, and may proudly claim to be the ‘jack of all trades, master of none’, as the Muggles put it. We leave the Auroring up to the Aurors, the paperwork up to the Archivists and the puerile political pandering up to the various Ministers. We excel in providing both support to all the Ministry activities and  also enhancement of all Wizardry by studying with intent the true workings of Magic. Potter, I realized instantly, had never fully read his assigned ‘Hogwarts, a History’ and was still a novice when it came to Occluding and Legilimency. That would not do; ergo: ‘special lessons’.

I had also noticed, upon recovery and fully assuming my new duties as Head, that there was a distinct change in the Potter-Malfoy dynamic. Where before the young men had been at loggerheads, often bickering and throwing hexes, now they had achieved a certain…’understanding’, for want of a better word. A detente of sorts, which was much encouraged by the undeniably physical relation in which they were apparently engaged. Oh, they were discreet enough about it; it took Hermione Granger quite some time to catch on although Lovegood was, in my opinion, always the more prescient one on the subject. She dropped a broad hint about the situation the very day she delivered to me my Kneazle kitten. But eventually even Weasley and Longbottom caught on and I suppose Parkinson noticed at about the same time as Zabini did.

None of this was my business nor was it a real concern. The Ministry abounds with nepotism and fraternization, which is perfectly understandable given how small our Wizarding society is. No, I did not give a slivered Shrivelfig if the boys were shagging. They were at liberty to, as the young people say, ‘do the nasty’ whenever they pleased, providing they weren’t doing it during normal Ministry hours. Well, not so as to be discovered. But I was concerned about their lack of transparency--and even more concerned over young Draco’s heightened interest in the use of the Pensieve Protocol. It became ever more clear to me, as time progressed and they stepped fully into their roles as trusted and tried Unspeakables, that there was a Problem.

Draco, I think, has always been a sensitive boy. It is natural for a Slytherin to continually aware of the acts of others and they can fixate quite easily. I believe it may due to our inclination towards devotion. In my own way I was quite devoted to my Lily and, after her death, I became devoted to the cause and protection of her child, even though the boy irked me more often than not. Draco was an especially loving and loyal son to his parents, often going against good sense to support their views, and an equally loyal friend to the very few persons he allowed into his inner circle. I had never realized, although in retrospect I feel that I should have, that his favour had fallen upon Harry even before the events of the Battle. Furthermore, I don’t believe that he did either; it was a shock to him, that realization, and it caused some degree of sorrow.

I must admit that I, too, know how an affection that is not returned may pain one extensively.

Which brings me to the Pensieve Protocol. We in DoM use Pensieves regularly as part of the Pondering that is the core of our mission. The Wizarding mind is an amazing and wondrous thing but it can become lazy, hazy and clogged by an over-effluence of minutia. Further, all Wizards and Witches are biased in some manner and thus their individual perceptions can cloud reality. Pensieving memories solves these manifold issues, to some extent. Too many memories Pensieved, however, may lead to a discontent and a pervasive malaise that is physical, mental and emotional.

Draco brought me a number of personal Pensieves, early on. Brief memories he stated he’d rather not have so very fresh and present in his mind, he said. I am, however, a man in constant danger. My enemies still exist and likely I will make more as time passes. I did not wish to take on a burden of trust that I could not swear upon Oath I could reliably keep. I informed Draco of this, he said that he only required that they be kept with someone ‘safe’, someone ‘trustworthy’. When I proposed handing them over to Harry Potter for such safekeeping, he laughed bitterly and informed me he had no objection, provided Harry swore such an Oath to me that he not view them. Thus I have been handing them off to Potter as Draco has conveyed them to me over the last few years, always with the injunction to adhere to our privacy guidelines.

I have every faith that Potter has indeed honoured his promise. But he was Sorted Slytherin originally and he was Sorted Unspeakable when he first came to Ministry and he has excelled in his lessons on Legilmens and Occlumens during training. There was no doubt in my mind as I witnessed this confrontation between the two young men that Potter had engineered it. That he had, in fact, employed the one method that would be effective in encouraging young Malfoy to reveal his true feelings.

I must admit I am honestly proud of that young scalawag. He is all that one could ever hope to be as an Unspeakable. But I can only pray to a beneficent Frigga that my small efforts on his behalf to sort his emotional imbroglio will never, ever remarked on. Appalling idea. One I wish I could Pensieve, actually.

 

> POTTER!” Draco positively roared this, popping his head back out of the cauldron and propelling himself forward and onto Harry’s person with fire in his eye. “You fucking bastard! Why didn't you tell me?”
> 
> “Oomph!” Both of them teetered madly on the poor unfortunate chair Potter had managed to cling fast. “Agh, Draco!”
> 
> “Why did you _never._ Fucking. **_Tell_** me? All that time I--you know what, I hate you! I hate you so, so _much_ \--moronic, close-mouthed, cagey-as-fuck--mmmph!”
> 
> Their faces collided. With a smacking thump. It seemed painful. It was certainly painful to watch.
> 
> They simultaneously toppled over. There was a clinch as they went down; various limbs flailed wildly. Rambunctious young idiots.
> 
> I was forced to adjust both my stance and the position of the cubby door in order to see more clearly. It was difficult to make out the details of the ensuing action, what with the crash of furniture to the floor and the robes flurrying about like wind-whipped laundry but I did distinctly witness what I believe was meant to be a kiss.
> 
> Of sorts.
> 
> A ‘snog’, the young people call it. More like an all-out ‘assault-and-battery’ but still technically a kiss, in that lips directly touched lips directly and on purpose. A ‘devourment’, to all intents and purposes.
> 
> Of course, having never had the pleasure myself of kissing a person whom I loved and who loved me, I do not consider myself a true expert. But I have also been responsible for the behaviour of a legion of young persons.
> 
> “Well, well, well, those freaky little gits,” I murmured to my Kneazle, who had remained purring in my arms the entire time, despite the ongoing theatrics. “ _Finally_.”
> 
>  


	6. Chapter 6

Harry is a first-class idiot. I say this with love. An oblivious, honourable, entirely too good for his own good knob- _end_.

This started with a kiss. Well, it started well before that, but technically it began for real when he slopped a tongue full of Felix into my maw and groped me into agreeing mindlessly to a mad scheme to keep our revered Potions prof from shuffling off this mortal coil. Which I did do, thanks very much. However, I’ve realized since that, while never had my actual life been in more danger than when I was in the company of Harry Potter, it was my fucking heart which had always been royally imperiled.

That little bastard had me the moment he called me ‘Draco’ and he must’ve known it, too. But he didn’t so much as utter a peep yay or nay as to why. We went with the who and the how and what and when, all in terms of the will of the flesh and the pleasuring thereof. Never once touched on the why’s of it, though.

And so it went. For three years he said nothing. Not a word. Not for lack of opportunity either. I didn’t ask outright, naturally; I’m a Slytherin.

He could have said something when I eased my way into the loose knot of ex-Gryiffs, Huffles and Ravens at the Ministry Sorting and attempted to make some form of peace. But no, he merely said ‘Hey, how are you doing, Malfoy? Exciting, isn’t it?” and then snogged me quickly round the back of a column at the back of the hall and asked me if I was maybe interested in ‘more, later, maybe?’ I recall nodding vaguely, mainly because I was dazed. Of course I was interested; Slytherin, damn it. Newly minted Unspeakable, too. Asking anything outright rather goes against my job description, don’t you know.

So yes, as it turned out, ‘more, later, maybe?’ turned into a series of on-again, off-again trysts which then morphed into a great deal of ‘on, habitually, but not admitting it’. Before I knew it it was more like ‘my mail is being Owled here; should I pick up milk in the morning?’ Harry could have said something, anything at all really, during the scads of meals shared, the multitudinous moments of physical intimacy, or even during the odd lull at a raucous Weasley Sunday dinner.  He could have also said something when he noticed the Stonehenge Pattern.

There’s been a Stonehenge Pattern in every bloody Ponder Snape has presented us with for months now. Every. Single. Fucking. One.

And the Gala. The bloody Beltane Gala that Potter has never once attended in three straight years and thus, solely due to my trap-minded, closed-mouth, overly-courteous, raised-by-freaky-heathens, completely-socially-clueless lover, _neither did I_.

_Despite_ my timely-but-casual mentions of its history and purpose, _despite_ my occasional sprinklings of fun facts about famed Wizards and Witches Past who’ve had the pleasure of forming lasting Bonds entirely due to their attendance at this gathering of all gatherings, and _despite_ Snape’s well-meaning but highly misguided interference.

Really, it was no wonder I chose to forget. Or, more like, I chose to selectively _not recall quite so clearly_. It started quite early, using the Pensieve. Almost an accident, really. And then I suppose I thought it would be easier, working with Harry whilst sleeping with Harry as I was--as we were. Better not have too much invested, better not to assume.

I couldn’t read him, you see. Fucking star student of the Special Snape School of Legilmens and Occlumens. He’s done entirely too well with those ‘special lessons’, and well, I...couldn’t just ask, could I? That would be gauche. That would be setting myself up for a lifetime of misery and doing so of my own volition. That is so not the person I aspire to be...and it wouldn't have been good for either of us. We work well together. We mesh, as they say. And I couldn't imagine not having Potter about to bother me and bugger me, and often vice-versa, simply because of some damned aeons-old Beltane ritual my Muggle-raised mumpty never really understood the point of. I mean, he was raised by utter--well, let’s not get into that now.

Better, I thought to myself, not to know, exactly. Better not to be able remember every single instant I’d felt positive he was right on the verge of saying something, anything, about the state of our relationship--and then he, the consummate bastard, didn’t say it. Ever so much more satisfactory to not dwell, to not obsess, to not flagellate myself over something I couldn’t control, couldn’t influence. Harry would be Harry; he always was. And if I wanted Harry--which I do, and did, and apparently always will--it was best _not_.

There is one other Memory I will probably ‘Sieve, just so I can always go back to it. Harry said it more than once, and quite recently, but that one. That one is special.

> _Breathing! He_ is _, isn’t he—not a ghost—Malfoy?_ **Draco** _?_
> 
> _...Beautiful._


	7. Chapter 7

Harry here. Well, I must say it’s worked out for the best, really, my plan. I’ve a few bruises from hitting the floor without so much as a Cushioning Charm cast, but then again Draco was quick enough to shield my head from a probable concussion, so that was alright.

It was even better when he stopped trying to harangue me for being--and I quote--a ‘contrary, oblivious, thick-headed, manipulative maniac’--whilst also snogging me and just concentrated on the snogging bit.

I had to endure several more bouts of haranguing but on the whole he was pleased, especially as I remembered to Disapparate us both to my place so as not to commit a decidedly Unspeakable carnal act in the sanctity of Snape’s favourite Ponder Room.

He was even more pleased when he got the chance to drag me off to Madame Malkin’s and have me decked out in some sort of sheer bobbinet toga-like garment, decked out with a confusing assortment of trailing green ribbons.

“Matches your amphibiously green orbs exactly, Potty,” he cooed, maliciously tweaking at my pleats and surreptitiously feeling up my cock when Madame wasn't looking. “What can I say? I’m a genius.”

I managed to choke back the giggles but it was a near thing. Poor Draco had to Charm me a glass of water.

Anyway, he was _especially_ chuffed at the deathly silence and shocked faces we caused upon our grand entrance through the ritual Arches at Stonehenge on the night of the blasted Beltane Gala. It was lovely evening, warmish with distinct hints of summer in the light breezes and from the scented waves of heat billowing off the bonfires. I’d never seen the Stones up close, either. It’s always been in Memories or pictures, or in Snape’s inscrutable representations done up in Muggle matchsticks and dominos. And I was damnably glad Draco stuck to me like a leech because my bum was fair freezing off in those light breezes and that blasted damned tulle thingy.

“What?” I remember saying, looking about at all the other scantily clad Ministry employees and their various dates, mates and partners. “What’s happening, Draco? Why are they staring like that? And so...so quiet. It’s bloody _eerie_.”

I mean, not even _Hermione_ was talking. That’s unheard of.

“Silence, Potty,” he told me, smirking just exactly as Nesbit does at Treat Time, “is the most telling accolade of them all, especially when it comes to the Ministry. These are bureaucrats, my love. Shutting their traps is well-nigh impossible, a feat so seldom attained it’s nearly mythical. It’s the social equivalent of a standing ovation at a Muggle Royal Command Performance. Now, why don’t you do the same, eh? Shut that luscious gabbing hole of yours--so I may snog you?”

Yes, well. As you may be able to discern, Draco’s feeling much more comfortable. And so am I. I’ve wanted this...this sort of thing, this feeling that I don't have words for, and it’s been ever so long since _that_ moment. That time, right after the Fiendfyre, right before--well, right before everything else happened.

I felt it then, for the first time in my life, that deep-seated conviction, that down-to-the-bone knowing of another person, and wanting them, ever so much, to keep and hold forever. I had thought it was Ginny but it really wasn’t. I love her dearly, that I do, but she’s not. She’s not _him_.

I’ve been worrying about him, and I guess it finally came to a tipping point. He’s so sharp, you know, so much aware, all the time, and then there’d be gaps, suddenly. Little things. Something I’d said to him, that he’d not recall. Something we’d done together, which he remembered only very vaguely. And those Pensieves of his, the personal ones, that Snape would pass on to me for safekeeping. There were more and more of them and he smiled and laughed less and less. I began to hate it, once I sorted out what he was doing, but there wasn’t much I could do. He’s stubborn as fuckall and has his own definition of honour. And he loves his job, as do I.

He’d only Pensieve anything he felt might endanger it--or endanger our ‘casual’ relationship, or so I surmised. So I was left with only one course of action--to give him mine. _My_ Memory of that first time. Hope it would sway him into admitting whatever it was he was so desperately trying to forget.

I didn’t want to lose him, not ever. But I barely had him anymore and he can’t read my mind. No one can; I’m a little too good at what I do, thanks to Snape.

It was the only way. Frippery aside, it was worth it. We plan a June 5th Bonding Ceremony. _Sumer_ , as Draco likes to tell me, _is icumen in_.


	8. Chapter 8

Severus Snape here. Miss Lovegood was kind enough to stay a little after our latest Ponder and present me with a packet of Dessicated Nundu Vomit Treats for my Sweetums. They are his favourite and, what with the additional hours I’ve been spending here at the Ministry lately, I’ve barely had time for a proper tea break, much less an opportunity to visit Diagon’s All A Kneazle Ever Needs Emporium. However, such long hours are to be expected when two high-ranking staff members are granted simultaneous leave of absence.

Lovegood left me a Personal Memory as well. A little snippet from the just-past Beltane Gala. Potter and Draco do manage to make quite the spectacle, prancing about the fringes of the bonfires in those ridiculous robes, laughing and jollying about with Granger, Weasley, Parkinson and the others. There was one especially amusing bit, however, in which Draco is seen using his wand--of all things!--to beat out some stray sparks singeing Potter’s ribbons. Naturally the young fools danced too close to the flames. Quaffed a prodigious quantity of mead as well. Rather glad I wasn’t relying on their expertise to be present till after the momentous weekend. On the whole, though, it was quite sickening saccharine, what with all the ritual this and romantic that.

As is also to be expected, I daresay, from two sodden, smitten young twats anticipating their Bonding Day. Thankfully Lovegood did _not_ include the actual acts of anticipation.

In any event, I plan to pay them back for it, this insult to my eyes. Those poor imperiled Prophecies are really crying out for their restorations; I imagine it’ll take the two of them months on end to properly complete this special assignment I have prepared especially for them. More to the point, there’s any number of small, poorly-lit annexes down that particular corridor. I shall be doing all the rest of us a great favour, no doubt, in allowing them at least the _pretext_ of an excuse for privacy.


End file.
